(thank you to Tiffany for pointing out that I forgot to post a picture of the completed masterpiece.)

Notice the interplay between dark and light? The gentle, sweeping motion of the lines as they grace the page? The fact that the artist chewed on the corner of the paper?

(the smiley face is my contribution).

To me, the work symbolizes a peaceful resolution to the conflict in Libya. To Brian, he saw the tide breaking in the Pacific Ocean at dawn. As for its actual meaning, we may never know, as the artist is fairly tight-lipped about his true intentions.

That, as well as he only has about 30 words in his vocabulary. The most recent one? "Flush!" Sophisticated, I know. We run a classy joint around here.

Let it be known: he is quite serious about his passion. He sits in his big boy chair, assesses the white paper in front of him, and selects his first medium with careful consideration: colored pencil or owl-shaped crayon?

Quiet, please. Genius at work.

In this instance, the crayons won.

Per Crayola, young children are better able to grasp and draw when there is a rotund, colorful animal attached to the writing utensil. (actually, they claim that the shape of the little animal makes it easier for kids to write since they grasp it better.) So like any good mother, I sought out the latest piece of molded plastic that will allegedly further my child's development and promptly purchased it.

Scotty did a great job this particular picture. Since his animal-crayon selection was sadly limited to only red, blue, and green, he eventually moved on to the colored pencils, as if offered him a chance to shade and contour his drawing with more depth and complexity.

Happy Tree Bear

Notice the focus? The concentration? This kid is in the zone.

When Brian came home, Scotty showed off his masterpiece with excitement and a bit of trepidation. Brian praised him for his use of color and realism, though noted some aspects of his technique lacked finesse. It's okay; he's only 20 months. We've got plenty of time to improve.

We named this picture, "Scribbles at Dawn" and hung it on the fridge. I'm sure Van Gogh's mother would have done the same.

Scotty and I have had a pretty chill week so far. We're staying close to home, putting puzzles together, building villages out of blocks (well, I am. Scotty likes to knock my buildings over with unbridled glee), and watching his new favorite friend, "Ne-Moo" (Elmo) on "Sesame Street." It's been very enjoyable to stay close to home, especially since the last few weeks have been a whirlwind of play dates, park visits, and activities.

Scotty is getting especially good with the iPad. He knows how to turn it on and off, select the program he wants, and even move the screen. There are some great kid apps out there like "Smart Baby First Words" and animal sounds. It's gotten to the point where I can hand Scotty the iPad and he'll be fairly content while I wash dishes, pick up the house, etc. This means he's not biting my legs, slapping me, or pinching me to get my attention. Thank you, Steve Jobs.

Today he was clicking around on the programs, and I noticed he was really interested in Roby the Robot. It's the kind of app similar to Talking Tom (the Cat) and Talking John (the bacteria -- ?) - the little creature repeats back whatever you say, and you can click on different buttons to make the critter do different things. I had just installed the latest Roby activities, and Scotty seemed to really dig it when the robot danced for him. He had three different dance buttons, and then a small button with a piano on it. Great, I thought, Roby plays the piano. A little Tiger Mom of me, I admit, but Scotty's definitely not too young to be interested in music and musical instruments.

Except Roby didn't play the piano. When Scotty hit the button, a piano fell out of the sky and crushed Roby. Only his little shoes remained, like the Wicked Witch.

The first time it happened, Scotty looked at me with his surprised face. Then he hit the button again. He started to cry. By the time the kid hit the button for the third time (inexplicably, I might add -- did he think Roby was going to survive this one?), the crying had turned into full-blown hysterical wails. I'm talking red face, big tears, thunderous cries, the works. Okay, Emo-baby, stop making yourelf upset. No more iPad.

And when I took the object away, he really let it all out.

Good heavens.

It took me literally 35 minutes to calm my child. We ended up in his nursery, rocking gently, hugging his giant stuffed dog, reading some books (that ended more happily than Roby's ultimate fate.) I was finally able to coax Scotty back downstairs, but only with the promise of more Ne-Moo and some juice and muffins. The whole time I kept thinking, "Did I just traumatize my kid with an app? Seriously?"

And so while Scotty was happily placated, I set about trying to delete the stupid app (knowing full well if I didn't, Emo-baby would go right for Roby again and we'd have another 35 minute meltdown on our hands.) The only problem? I don't know how to delete apps. I'm about as computer illiterate as they come. (this blog is a work of pure luck and chance, really).

I ended up calling Brian's office - not to talk with Brian, since I knew he was in court, but to conference in one of his associates who I know is really good with Apple stuff. Uncle Jim, however, was on vacation. I think the receptionist was really curious about what was going on (and I was feeling stupider and more desperate with every minute that ticked by), so when she suggested she connect me with Brian's secretary, I readily agreed. And Carmen, bless her sweet heart, didn't know how to delete apps but offered this nugget: "Why don't you Google it?"

Oooooh. Duh. Thanks, Carmen. When my mom-brain is working overtime (i.e. consoling, calming, and placating the child), the rational brain appears to click off. Carmen even sent me a link with very complete directions, so now I'm armed and ready to destroy anymore potentially emotionally-upsetting apps in the future.

Scotty and I are stuck in the house today as there are workmen here repairing the hole in the garage ceiling. As is the case with any workman-in-my-house situation, I'm never 100% convinced that they are not going to rob/murder/assault me, so I had some friends over for a play date. There is really nothing quite like having five children under the age of three run around your house while men operate heavy machinery in your hallway.

At least they haven't robbed us yet.

Photos:

Alex was his usual sweet self.

Hello there.

Samantha had a lot to tell Scotty.

...and so, I was all like, 'What?' and she was like...

This was the best shot of Jackson I could manage. That kid is fast! He's like a ball of lightening. And he must have fallen over about six times - I mean, full-on, hands on the floor-wipe out. And yet, he bounced right up each time like nothing had happened. He's quick and made of rubber. Amazing.

On Monday, Brian was off of work so we headed to the park as a family. We had done this on Sunday, too, and brought the red kick ball with us. Despite the fact that Scotty showed about 3% interest in kicking the ball (and 97% interest in wandering through the park's field), Brian and I had so much fun with it that we wanted to repeat the experience again. And who knows, maybe more appropriate modeling by his parents would help him develop an interest sports.

Different park, different ball on Monday. The blue soccer ball came with us, along with a health competitive spirit. As Scotty meandered through the grass and examined trees, Brian and I kicked the ball back and forth. I need to point out that I have zero athletic abilities and no soccer experience, so when I say "kick," what I really mean is "heft my foot at the ball and pray it goes in the right direction."

And not surprisingly, it didn't. When we were about 40 feet apart (with the little Bear pulling on some low-hanging tree branches nearby), I accidentally kicked the ball completely in the wrong direction. Brian thought I did it on purpose, and I could hear him swearing under his breath as he jogged to get the ball back (ironically, it rolled into a picnic for a youth soccer team.) He then kicked the ball really hard at me. I kicked it hard back at him. He slammed the ball in my direction. I slammed it back, making him run even more. See? We are your standard, mature, type-A couple. When one person gets competitive, we put our game faces on and immediately attempt to one up the other person.

This went on for quite awhile. And then, during my turn, I put extra effort into my kick and heaved my leg back, then forward, and watched the ball go flying forward...in the air...and headed directly at Scotty, who was still innocently examining tree bark. (he's quite the little botanist.)

Whoops.

It was like one of those slow-motion moments. Brian and I both realized what was happening at the same time and started running towards him, and we watched as the ball took one bounce...two...and then smacked him in the back of his right knee. He went down like a ton of bricks.

Good thing he has some ample padding.

The poor little guy was twisted around his beloved tree, laying on the ground on his side, more startled than hurt. By the time we reached him, we were both laughing so hard it was hard to breath. Because we were laughing, he immediately started laughing too, looking from one face to another, like, "I get the joke! I get it! Wait, what are we laughing about?"

Glad he's got a good sense of humor. Bowling over my child like a 33-inch bowling pin was enough to quash the "friendly" competition for the day, needless to say. We dusted him off, put the soccer ball away and headed back to the playground equipment like good, responsible parents.

Between the blue skies, blue shirt, and blue pants, Scotty practically blends in with the park equipment.

Where's Waldo Bear

(East Coast/Midwest friends, please don't kill me. I know, it really is warm enough out here for short sleeves. And that blue sky is only made better by a giant, glowing orb we like to call the sun. It's fabulous, really, and yes, it's January.)

(What? Did you really think I remembered to weigh myself after staying up waaaay too late watching election results, eating wasabi peas and drinking red wine? When your child is up at 6:01am, you barely remember who you are, let alone what you are supposed to do at that time of day.)

Seriously though, I think it's time for Weigh-In Wednesdays to be put on hold. And I'm counting on some major pounds coming off as a result of the surgery - not only do I have to fast for two days before, but I'm guessing the fibroid is a good 2 lbs. I mean, it has to be huge, right? And the doctor is removing it, so it's like instant weight loss. Excellent. And I'm guessing (hoping) some abdominal fat will break free during the operation and fall on the floor of the surgical room, giving me more instant weight loss. So once all of the fluids they pump me with ebb away, I've got my money on at least a solid five pound loss. Obviously, this will be countered by the fact that I am going to sit on my dead, lazy arse for the next several weeks, likely indulging in cookies and other delicious snacks, but just let me have my moment, okay?

Anyways...

We will resume Weigh-in Wednesdays probably around the first of the year. I see no point in starting 6 weeks after my surgery, since that puts us directly in the middle of the holiday season, and I don't really want to think about counting calories when surrounded by Christmas cookies, fancy cheeses, and turkey with all the trimmings. So I hate to be all cliched, but it will be a 'New Year' thing. Sorry. I'll probably burn calories just trying to battle my way on to the next available treadmill at the gym, the place is so bloody crowded that time of year. ::sigh::

Back to the pumpkin bread. It is amazing. Let me say that again: aMAZing. Totally delish. And I've baked a fair number of pumpkin breads in my life, and this one, by far, tops it. So without further adieu, here is the recipe, courtesy of allrecipes.com:

In a large bowl, combine sugar, oil, and eggs. Add pumpkin, mix well. In a separate bowl, combine the dry ingredients; add to the pumpkin mixture, alternating with water. Pour into 2 9x5x3 (or 3 8x3x3) greased pans and bake at 350 for 60-65 minutes (55 minutes if you use smaller pans.) Wait for your entire house to be filled with a wonderful aroma. Cool in pans for 10 minutes before removing; cool on wire racks until completely cool. Slather fancy European butter on a slice and watch Oprah. Love life.

Pretty good, huh?

Scotty loved it, too. (I'm sure the 3 cups of sugar helped.) I gave him part of mine and he mowed through it like a hungry bear. He is the best little snacker; he hangs out shoulder-level with me (while I sit on the floor) and he takes one delicate bite at a time. He is very serious when he snacks. It's hard for me to not snack on his cheeks when he is so close and cuddly.

Speaking of snacks, my friend Deana came up with a Nobel Peace Prize-winning idea, since it promotes good feeling between moms and their toddlers, and between toddlers and other toddlers. She calls it "Baby Chex Mix" and it's nothing short of ingenious. When your child has a good pincer grasp and can chew solids, this is the perfect snack food. And it takes them a solid 10 minutes to eat it (meaning more time for moms to talk to one another.) Just a tip though: serve it in spill-proof containers. Deana's little boy Jackson literally had Baby Chex Mix strewn on my floors from one end of the kitchen to another yesterday. Aside from Deana crawling around on her hands and knees, apologizing profusely while picking up teeny-tin, it was a huge hit with the kids. (This is why God made brooms.)

BABY CHEX MIX

CheeriosPuffsCraisinsRaisinsDried fruit for babies (like the Gerber or Earth's Best line), such as dried apples, mango, pineapple, and apricot.

Mix all together. Watch as your child eats and eats and eats and eats...(and watch carefully, since raisins can be a choking hazard.)

At our preschool Halloween party, I have never seen so many quiet, well-behaved children all snacking from their bowls in the same room. It was downright magical. Way to go, Deana!!

Forgive me if this entry is poorly written. I literally have about two minutes to write and 36 different things going on in my head.

First, weight: same.

::yawn::

Diet, blah, blah, blah. Exercise, blah, blah, blah. I've been to the gym a few times and am trying to be careful about what I'm eating. However, this past weekend, I was at the grocery store near in the dairy aisle and stumbled upon my all-time favorite butter (sad, I know, that I have a "favorite" butter.) It's this fancy-schmansy European kind that I indulged in while living in Ireland, and this little foil-wrapped packet of goodness jumped into my cart without a second thought. I made a bee-line for the bread aisle and stuffed some whole wheat English muffins in the cart as well, and let's just say, breakfast this week has never been more delicious.

So...yeah. Not good on the weight front, but so yummy on the taste buds.

And I'm okay with the lack of forward progress. I did follow Jill's advice last week and spent five minutes in front of a mirror, admiring my good features (in this order: my hair, my teeth, my nose, my hands, and finally, my legs) and it was fun to think about things I like, not the things I want to change. During my mirror-gazing, I came to this realization: fat is a feeling, weight is a number. What I mean is you can feel "fat" at any weight - whether you are 190 lbs or look like Audrina Padridge (holy skinny cats!!). Likewise, you can feel great at any weight. But weight - the number - exists as an objective measurement to help you have a goal AND a healthy size. Does that make sense? Either way, I've had my "fat" days and my "skinny" days, despite the number on the scale not moving much. I'm glad I still have a goal and weight or else I would totally lose motivation.

And I will admit...it's hard to find the motivation these days. I'm going to be cut open in less than two weeks. (just this morning, I was at Dr. Awesome's office for Scotty's flu booster shot, and I told her about the surgery, since it overlaps with his 15-month vaccine schedule. Her response? "So they are going to cut you open?" Really, doc? Really? Did you have to say it like that? That should be banned right along with 'bleed out.' ) I alternate between wanting to do a million sit-ups, since I won't have ab-usage for quite some time, and not doing any, thinking to myself, 'What' the use?'

And I'm not going to lie, in the back of my mind, I am secretly hoping George does a little nip/tuck while he's down there.

At present, there is a more present issue than body image and weight loss: separation anxiety. Holy moly, we are hitting a peak here people. Scotty cannot handle it if I leave the room even for a few seconds. I started to notice this a few weeks ago, namely at Music Lessons. During different times, we would have to get up and walk in a circle. Since Scotty was Little Mr. Independent then, he would never be next to me when we would start to walk. But all it took was for me to be 3 additional feet away from him (by my own doing) and he would glance around the room, frantically, scanning for his Momb. When his eyes met mine, it was like pure relief flooded the little guy...and then fury. You could practically read his thoughts: "Oh! Momb! She didn't leave me! Oh thank goodness! Wait, don't EVER do that to me again!"

Pout, pout, scream.

And it's only gotten worse since then. I left him with a baby-sitter last week and he pitched an ever-loving fit when I exited. She called me about 30 minutes later and said, "I don't think he was sad...I think he was just pissed. He hid on the other side of the kitchen island for a good five minutes, just screaming."

Oh wow.

And then on Thursday night, at Paid Humiliation, I handed him off to the swim instructor (like we've done for the past three months) -- with me no less than 2 feet away from him in the water -- and he began bellowing and shrieking like someone poured hot oil on him. He clawed away from her and for a second, I really thought he was going to start swimming (and kicking) just to get to me. But he just made some huge splashes and got me all wet.

He even does this to Brian. I'll run upstairs for something and within seconds, he's at the gate, shaking it like a mini King Kong, screaming "MEHHHHHHH!"

Let me tell you: so much fun.

Yesterday was the worst. Not only did he turn purple in the face when I left for a few seconds while at a friend's house (I had to unload stuff from my car), but he also woke up at 12:30am screaming. All it took was about 10 minutes of gentle rocking to calm him down, but I can, again, hear his little thought process: "Momb, don't leave. No Momb, no!!! You are never coming back! No stay here! EEEEEEEEEEEEE!"

While this is all developmentally appropriate (SA peaks between the ages of 15-18 months), leaving for a solid 2.5 days isn't...yeah, the surgery (and time at the hospital) is really weighing on me. Two and a half days is like an eternity in toddler years. He really is going to think I've left and am never coming back. And then when I do return, I'm not going to be able to pick him up or bathe him or feed him, like our normal routine. I've been asking myself over and over again, "Should I be doing this?" and I keep coming up with...yes. So, we will just all have to bear the brunt of...the Bear.

Oh, and I've gotten a lot of questions re: the fibroid and the surgery. In order to address all of the them, be sure to tune in tomorrow for a very special post, one I am calling, 'Behind the Blog: The Untold Story of my Fibroid." Good stuff!